


To all the plans we made

by bluebells



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Allusions to events from Rebels series, And now for something soft and spooky, During and post-season 1, Falling In Love, Found Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Reunions, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebells/pseuds/bluebells
Summary: "How do you mourn the loss of a love you never spoke out loud? Never felt with your own two hands?"- Shelby EileenStill smarting from his injuries on Nevarro, newly minted buir Din Djarin ends up stranded with his child on the former Imperially-occupied Lothal. Their predicament provides the opportunity to slow down and heal from more than one kind of hurt.
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin, Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Paz Vizsla, Din Djarin/Paz Vizsla
Comments: 59
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Danudane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danudane/gifts).



> A belated birthday present for my stalwart partner-in-crime, my actual creative source, Dani, you have been so patient, I adore you. Happy Halloween and happy return of season two!
> 
> With the return of season two, canon is probably going to kick my ass (did Din grow up with the tribe, or join them later? Did he and Paz actually grow up together? Sure he's a Mandalorian, but does Din Djarin like spicy food?) but hey, let's live dangerously.

_Good riddance  
_ _To all the thieves  
To all the fools that stifled me  
They’ve come and gone and passed me by  
_ _\-- Good Riddance,_ Darren Korb

They rarely spoke in public before. Once Paz ends it, they don't speak at all.

Din returns and walks straight by Paz in the covert’s dim passage. Perhaps he imagines the murmurs that follow him. Maybe Paz has been telling stories in his absence.

He doesn't care.

His world tips when Paz challenges him in the Armourer's forge, the glut of Imperial-stamped beskar gleaming before them. Din burns with the same incredulous fury as when he read the short phrase on his vambrace that ended their even shorter liaison: _thank you._

 _They are all watching,_ Din thinks. _They all know._ Paz Vizsla set Din Djarin aside, and now they think he had good reason: the beroya shares tables with the ones who almost wiped them from every star map. He would spit on the sacrifice of their fallen, their elders; their children. Of course, Paz knew his true character -- of course!

"Enough," Alor growls, rising to her feet.

Their weapons are lowered, but the damage is done. Paz would have removed his helmet. He would have thrown Din to the cold, from the only family and belonging he had known since the loss of his parents.

Kneeling, Din broods with Alor’s hammer ringing in his ears, his throat tight, vision blurred with tears of impotent rage and hurt, drawing deep, trembling breaths. The scream of metal and the strike of Alor’s tools return him to the day the droids fell from the sky. He thinks he manages to hide his flinch in the silent grip of those horrific memories.

When Alor presents his new cuirass, Din blinks past the tears burning a path down his cheek. The beskar’gam shines in the low light, defiantly bright and flawless. He has no family to inherit this from. He was claimed by the tribe and it is the tribe who dress and armour him. It is an honour and a privilege that close his throat with gratitude and guilt in equal measure. He's grateful Alor doesn't expect him to speak.

"Stand," she says instead. "We will test its fit."

He itches to remove his glove and feel its smooth curve under his fingertips. He's not interested in a legacy, but maybe he will one day have someone to pass this to. 

///

It defies belief how much can happen in a day.

Din bows his head, sheltering the child with his body on the skiff as the shots fire around them. 

_I’m sorry_ , he curses himself. _I won't leave you. I'm with you._

The child shifts, dark eyes cracking open, and Din's heart lifts-- then breaks at its small burble of happy relief. He strokes the edge of the child's bundling, a rueful smile tugging at his mouth.

It's a small consolation neither of them will die alone.

Din doubts his senses when he hears the familiar roar of jetpacks. 

Over the years, the opportunities to safely emerge in numbers fell fewer and farther between, but when the covert descend from the sky like the stories of old, a very young part of Din is awestruck and his heart soars with pride; for a brief moment, he is a child again watching the galaxy's greatest warriors materialise from the shadows and smoke.

A new sound makes him look up. Din’s heart leaps when Paz lands beside him with his heavy artillery raining a hail of rapid fire. The bounty hunters dive for cover.

Paz came. They all came for him.

Din’s voice sticks in his throat and all his built-up resentment falls away like ash. "You're going to have to relocate the covert."

He didn't ask for this. He didn't expect them to expose themselves for him and a child he stole. Everyone, just for them….

Paz looks at him, blaster cannon tight against his side. "This is the way," he declares, and the simplicity of it is deafening.

At Din's side, the child squirms, cowering against the shield of his body.

Din's heart thuds and he does not hesitate. "This is the way."

He runs.

///

Nights are endless in space and he dreams:

> His face buried in his mother’s hair, soaking in the homely scent of her skin as she sways with him in her arms.
> 
> A green farm where the wind breathes on his bare skin, overhanging trees rustle with birdsong, where he closes his eyes to breathe deep, unfiltered lungfuls of early harvest air.
> 
> The paralysing scream of an electric monstrosity clawing for him in a dark hole.
> 
> A towering presence guarding his back, and the warm rumble of a voice guiding him down to rest with a gentle tug on his wrist.

Always, he woke alone, his chest weighed by a grief and guilt so profound it was almost agonising. But he is no longer alone. The little one grounds Din from a spiral of anxious and unfulfilled musing of things that will never be. This is what is real. This is who he needs to protect.

The ship hums and creaks around them as auto-pilot systems and perimeter alerts guide their sail through the dark of space.

Din strokes a grateful hand down the child’s back. Small claws wrap around his thumb and he allows himself to be lulled to sleep by the baby's soft, sweet snores.

///

The sight of the armour pile in Nevarro’s dim sewers arrests Din in his stride, injuries forgotten in the horror of the moment.

 _Discarded? Or scavenged from the dead?_ His stomach drops, heart clenching. _Or both?_

Is this his fault? Because he rescued the child? Because the Tribe revealed itself coming to his aid? Has… did he kill his own people?

When Alor emerges pushing her cart and loading up the salvaged beskar, only a lifetime of training keeps Din from weeping in relief. She seems unaffected by his return.

"Did any survive?" Din asks, voice hoarse.

In his mind’s eye, an image of the ‘ade fleeing makes his eyes burn. Behind them, the profile of one blue beskar-clad gunner surges to the fore. Din’s mouth twists with bitter emotion. His heart is pounding. He needs them to be alive.

"Perhaps," Alor betrays nothing. Would she have said more if aruetii were not present? 

She won't come with them, but she won't let Din abandon his new responsibility to the child, either. It hollows him to later fly and leave her behind, not knowing if she is alive or dead.

He comforts himself with an old memory of witnessing her fury when the Empire came to Mandalore, tightly reined and tirelessly honed. He is yet to see an enemy that could best her.

///

Despite their minor age gap, Din and Paz were raised side-by-side with the other youth. It was the time before the covert, before the Mandalorian re-unification. Din can remember when he stood eye-to-eye with the younger Mandalorian and their guardians moved under the title of ‘Death Watch’; when names were uttered and weighed, and Paz never allowed anyone to forget he was born to the line of ‘Vizsla’.

He wasn’t always insufferable. Only when he opened his mouth.

Once the tribe went covert, Din used to wonder if Paz missed the honours his name earned, or if he just missed the luxury to care about such things in the face of basic survival. Maybe neither. Although Paz made him inwardly groan over the years, Vizsla’s son demonstrated time and again that he would always prioritise the Tribe. Din could respect that, even when that commitment later made things… complicated.

Din did not miss being ‘Din Djarin’.

(Sometimes, when he is alone at night, Din’s heart fractures at the memory of the family it came from, and how tightly they held him in their last moments; on those nights, he misses being Din Djarin more than he can bear, but he seals over the cracks each time without fail because he cannot face the dawn wounded)

It is easier to be ‘beroya’. Beroya is decisive, effective and knows he is needed. Young Din wasn’t sure of his place or if he would ever belong. With each season that passed and the covert’s growing need, the beroya knew his fate was inextricably woven with the tribe. Vode an, brothers all, it was understood the covert would strive as one to ensure their survival, each in their individual duties and mutually observing the Way.

There are few constants in the beroya's life. His existence is transitory, flying between systems where the bounties take him but, at the end of every job, the covert awaits his return. It’s impossible to imagine a life without them: the laughter of ad’iik lighting the halls, the affirming clang of Alor’s great hammer from the forge, and the broad figure of one heavy infantryman scrutinising all who come and go.

 _They’ll take the Creed at the next pass of the full moon,_ Paz’s message surprised him one day when he was away pursuing a Trandoshan who ran from his own bonding ceremony. A strange mission but the beroya followed where the best credits led him. Slighted in-laws paid handsomely.

The tribe’s front line of defence was not in the habit of communicating with their beroya. He stared at the text on the Crest’s console for a long, disbelieving moment. What should he say?

_Do you want me to bring them a gift?_

_Return if you can. Your witness will be gift enough for them._

His heart lifted, warmed at the thought the children wanted to see him. 

The children grow. The gleam of beskar dulls with time. The tribe still sings the old songs as the years pass, but it grows rote as the elders dwindle and the youth strain their ears for new sounds from the aboveground. Over the years, the edicts become stricter in response.

Weighed against the threat of discovery and extinction, Beroya brings in the most dangerous, most lucrative bounties. He has a tribe of mouths to feed, he can afford no less. His reputation spreads, begins to precede his entry in guild halls, and he lets that infamy work for him.

He knows he is making headway the first time Paz refrains from commenting on what he has brought home.

(Home is wherever he will find them)

In the aftermath, it is difficult to contend with the possibility he has led to the end of his people, and their fates are not so interlinked.

When Alor recognises him as Din Djarin once again, she adds one more title: ‘Buir’. It is an honour he accepts with trepidation.

Bundled in the seat behind him on the _Razor Crest_ , the child warbles and intently suckles the Mythosaur pendant as his buir takes them to the stars.

///

The dreams are the same: unmasking himself to bathe in the warmth of the sun, guilt on the back of every breath; leaning into the pillow of a broad shoulder as he’s enfolded in arms that soak the tension from his bones.

He startles awake to the flash of red lights and the Crest’s sirens blaring. He winces, resisting the impulse to adjust the sensitivity on his helmet’s audials as his hands fly over controls to stabilise the ship’s abrupt ejection from hyperspace.

The cockpit shudders with a distressed whine at his efforts. They tumble, steel of the hull shrieking. At last, the Crest’s thrusters engage, breaking their momentum, and his stomach swoops as the ship levels out. In the decks below, something heavy crashes into the wall.

Din follows the trail of tripped levers and flashing buttons back to the small child clutching the monitor with clawed fingers dug in tight, ears pressed low, eyes large and blinking wide. His bald-faced look of bewilderment is galling -- like this sort of thing had never happened before and how could he have known what to expect if he ran across the console in his sprawl?

Heart pounding, Din draws a steadying breath and narrows the child with a withering look through his visor. “This is _not your playground.”_

Ears falling even lower in despondence, the kid’s chin disappears into the collar of his robes, deep, soulful eyes pleading forgiveness.

Din ignores the pitiful whimper of apology as the steering cranks with a noise it absolutely shouldn’t. The console sparks and he startles at a wild arc of electricity, snatching the pouting kid away from the navicomputer monitor. He waits with bated breath watching the sparks and electronics sputter. Dangling before him, the kid warbles quizzically, small feet kicking back and forth.

With the final snap of electricity, the console goes dark. The cockpit dims to the red light of emergency power. The little one squeaks and glances up at him with a meek look.

Din sighs. “Well, that’s not good.”

///

Somewhere between dumb luck and good fortune, the kid’s mishap has spat them out within visual range of an inhabitable blue planet. They could have easily spiralled into an asteroid field or a star. Small mercies are with them today. 

The sun has almost sunk beneath the planet’s horizon when Din hails a maintenance hangar and guides them in on the last spittle of emergency power. The kid perches on his thigh listening as he barters with the engineer on the ground.

“No, re-direct to bay twenty-one,” the woman corrects, and Din wonders if he’s going to be contending with another stern Peli Motto type. “We’ve got a situation here.”

He tenses, thinking immediately of soldiers in white armour. “What situation?”

She sounds unconcerned. “You just land and let me take a look. I’m sure we got the parts.”

They fly over vast oceans and grassy, gold-green plains. Drawing closer to the large settlement at the foot of pale mountains, Din sees what he suspects is the source of their ‘situation’, angry plumes of grey smoke rising from the East wing of an open-air shipyard. The source of the blaze looks to be contained. Din is glad to have arrived after the excitement but he wonders how it will affect their ability to help him. And how it will drive the price.

///

Din is glad for his buyce so the engineer won’t catch him staring. He’s never met a female Ugnaught before. 

The child hums curiously from the crook of his elbow as the engineer wanders back and forth across his cockpit, leaning up on short legs to squint at the cracked, smoking console. Din has half a mind to offer her a hand up but he thinks of Kuiil’s bland look when offered the same. He thinks better of it.

“Hmm… I see it, ah….” she murmurs to herself, pulling down a protective set of goggles, her upper half disappearing as she settles on her back for a better look underneath.

Din reaches out and flicks on the light for that compartment.

“Oh. Thank you.” 

A cover panel is eased away to settle on the floor by her thigh and Din frowns at her troubling noise at whatever she sees.

“Don’t modify anything,” Din warns. “I just need the basics so it’s safe to fly.”

She grunts in amusement. “You need to thank whatever you pray to. By what I’m seeing? You should have crash landed.”

The child is fascinated by a spot on the floor when Din gives him a significant look.

“I can pay you,” he clarifies.

“Good.” She emerges from beneath the console and blinks up at him through those clear goggles. She is darker than Kuiil in her skin and hair, but though she looks younger by decades, she studies him with that same shrewd intelligence. Din thinks she knows what she’s doing. “I take a third now, the rest when the job is done.”

Her price is shockingly reasonable. She perks up when Din offers her the two fingers of pressed, shining currency. That might even be a smile at the corner of her mouth.

“How long?” he asks.

“I’m finishing up now. I’ll start tomorrow, so… maybe two days? Three?”

Din inwardly sighs. He hates to linger anywhere that isn’t the covert or the ship, but he reminds himself he isn’t in a rush. He can’t afford to pay her to work through the night.

The child coos with interest as Din settles him in the pack on his hip, realising they’re going for a journey. Those big, dark eyes are still tentative when he meets Din’s gaze. A gloved hand gently covers the child’s head, thumb affectionately stroking his brow and the child purrs, eyes squinted in delight. It’s inconvenient, but Din knows the kid didn’t mean to land them here in this situation.

“You recommend any lodgings?” Din asks.

The engineer pushes herself back to her feet, dusting off her coveralls. “How fancy you want it?” 

“Clean, discreet.” He glances at the child, ears twitching happily under his hand. “Warm.”

Humming thoughtfully, the engineer leads him from the cockpit. Din follows laden with the child and their few supplies, but descending the rungs of the ladder pulls on his injuries and he winces with a pained huff. 

Nevarro was days ago, but he still aches (everywhere) and his vision smears white with pain if he moves too quickly. After his shoulder was dislocated clinging with single-minded determination to Gideon’s TIE, he popped it back in himself. He’s accustomed to injuries lingering, but he’s woken two days in a row with dried blood on his neck. Maybe he’ll pass through an infirmary on the way to their lodgings.

Emerging from the ship, he notes the tidiness of the hangar: floor clear, crates stacked against the walls and, best of all, not a droid in sight. Maybe that’s an Ugnaught trait. 

Doffing her gloves on her wooden workbench, the engineer is watching the child, expression thoughtful. Din resists the impulse to hide him away. She probably just hasn’t seen one like it before. He wonders if anyone has.

“Go through the markets and you’ll find Tya’s,” the engineer points to indicate the way. “If she has room that’s where you’ll want to be. Avoid the East quarter on your way, they’re still cleaning up.”

Din studies her carefully. “Trouble?”

She shakes her head, mouth pulled in a shrug. “Not anymore.”

He lingers, subconsciously waiting for something he can’t name until she looks back expectantly. Those small eyes squint at him. “Something else?”

_I have spoken._

But she is not Kuiil, this is not Arvala-7, and they are not allies. The reminder hits him with a pang in his chest.

“Is there a medcenter?”

“In the market. White building, crest of the loth-wolf, you can’t miss it.”

He nods, feeling inexplicably foolish and leaves.

///

It’s dinner time and the bustling market crowd provides cover for them to slip through largely ignored. The cloak goes a long way to obscuring most of his beskar’gam, but the silver gleam still draws a few looks. 

The kid is being restless and keeps squirming to get down, but there are too many afoot. Closing the pack’s flap over his head, Din holds a hand against the shape of him, silently urging him to settle as they weave their way through.

White building. Black crest.

Something sharp and knobbly pushes against his hand; Din suspects an elbow. He looks down at the protesting squeal loud enough to be heard even above the market noise.

“Shhh, kid,” he soothes, straightening upright when the medcenter materialises from behind a thick chimney of steam from a vendor selling deep-fried Nuna legs. The entire marketplace is one sweltering temptation for the kid and Din knows he must be drooling in his pouch. Just a little more patience.

The loth-wolf above the medcenter’s entrance slants its proud nose to the darkening sky, a simplified caricature of bold, sweeping lines illustrating the creature’s dignity and protection over the denizens of the city.

Din pulls upright, staring at the building before looking up and down the street.

That’s Imperial architecture, but he can’t see a glimpse of an Imperial uniform. He waits a long minute to be sure; the Empire may have officially fallen at Yavin but some planets were slow to catch up. It was just his luck to have stranded himself on a planet that served as a former Imperial shipyard.

The kid’s impatient squirming compels him back into motion.

The medcenter’s interior makes his shoulders tense, the distinct edges of fine and orderly Imperial design starker here. Clean and well-maintained, the air buzzes with activity. Din waits to let two medical personnel pass him guiding a tall scanner. He steps up to the circular desk in the center of the waiting room and leans an elbow on the counter.

“Excuse me.”

The orderly standing behind the desk is an older man with dark hair greying at his temples. He looks up from the datapad and his expression slackens, eyes wide.

“Y--”

Din rolls his eyes, _yes, he’s a Mandalorian_. He ignores the reaction, charging ahead. “I need supplies. Bacta. Bandages. I can pay.”

The man’s jaw works before he snaps to alert at the sharp call that rings through the lobby: “Patients ETA in ten!” He turns back to Din, expression apologetic, lowering his datapad. “I’m sorry, friend, our re-supply hasn’t arrived this week and we have a medical emergency coming in.” Concerned eyes flicker over him. “Are you or someone you know presently in need of medical attention?”

Ugh.

Din pushes back from the counter, voice gruff, “Never mind.” The medic’s kind, urgent manner chafes and he doesn’t want to plead his case nor deprive them of something they need. He’ll survive. Apparently he pushes off the counter too hard because the surge of blood to his head makes his vision white out, swaying for a moment, but he’ll survive.

“Sir, if you really--”

Din waves him off with a hand, already turning his back. What’s one more concussion?

Once outside again, he rolls his shoulders, dragging in a slow breath of relief. Medcenters always made him feel cold. Sensing something at his shoulder, he looks back, expecting to find the orderly there insisting he return. There is no one.

The child is pouting when Din slips the pack open and peers in. He resists the impulse to laugh at the child’s accusing face. “Looks like you get your way, kid. Let’s eat.”

///

Din generally does not judge people by their appearance, but Tya is the second woman within an hour to catch him off-guard. Twi'leks have that effect on him.

She looks older by a few decades, back gently bowed, broad around the waist, her skin gleams like gold-russet shades of the dune sea under the warm lights of her house. She takes one look at him hesitating on the open threshold of her bar and shakes with quiet laughter, waving him in like an old friend. It might have something to do with the baby in his arms consuming a stick of meat as large as his whole body.

“Aren’t you just the cutest?” she coos, hands on her hips and a twinkle in her eye.

 _Nothing like Xi’an,_ Din muses.

The child hums happily around his mouthful of Nuna meat, sticky hands clutching his meal. Din holds it still to help and glances round the bar’s full tables of patrons dining on their evening meal.

“You have space for two?” He asks, gesturing with the child.

“Two? Just you?” Tya glances between them and frowns, peering over his shoulder. Din follows her gaze to find what she’s searching for but sees only strangers passing in the street, no apparent threats. He seals the door shut behind them.

“We need a room for a few nights. We’ll keep to ourselves.”

“Ah, to _stay.”_ Tya straightens and sizes him up. “Well, Mandalorians are always welcome on Lothal, but there’ll be no fighting under my roof.” She leans in and Din finds himself shrinking under her abruptly hard stare, despite her smaller stature. “Is that clear, young man?”

He wants to ask why Mandalorians have earned an exception on this planet, but he wants to sit and remove his helmet more. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Your kind rarely do,” she muses skeptically and leads him to the bar’s counter, a slight limp in her gait. “But the fight finds you anyway.”

While she consults her records, Din glances around the establishment. The bar itself isn’t large, he counts twenty patrons and he realises they’re sharing meals, not simply drinking. He has always prided himself on the ability to gauge the feeling in a room, detecting the slightest hitch of tension to warn of possible danger, and the tenor of Tya’s lodging is… secure. Comfort. Warmth. It feels like a home.

In the far corner, a Quarren and Mirialan break out in uproarious laughter, their unbridled mirth cresting above the tide of conversation, folding back in. There are all kinds of species in this place and that bodes well for Din and the child blending in.

He really owes it to the kid if he’s what earned them this referral.

“Young man,” Tya clears her throat. 

He looks back to find her offering a swipe card. He hesitates, quickly wiping his glove on his thigh to clear the child’s sticky sauce before accepting it. “Thank you.”

“Second floor, last door on the right. You hungry?”

Din falters. “I--”

“I can send up some soup. Unless you want something heartier?”

“I… th… that’s very kind. Soup will do very well.”

“‘Do very well’, listen to him,” Tya chuckles, searching his visor. “I’ll make it extra spicy and throw some rolls in there, too. The dough is fresh. You’ll like it.”

Ears burning, feeling both warm and chided, Din inclines his head. “Thank you.”

The old woman’s mouth quirks in amusement and she nods, excusing him. “All right, go on. There’s towels enough for the both of you.”

///

In the time it takes for Din to store their few belongings, the child has devoured his entire stick of meat. He raises an eyebrow at the child with its lips wrapped around the giant bone on the table, cheeks squished and suckling contentedly.

“Did you eat it or wear it?”

“Eh?” Dark eyes blink at him, face, hands and clothing smeared in oil and dark dipping sauce. 

Din shakes his head. “Okay, come on.”

The child squeaks in protest as he’s gently pried apart from his bone. 

“You’re filthy. You’re done with this.”

Bath time proves to be as messy as usual and Din is reminded why he prefers sonic freshers. The only thing the kid loves more than food is water.

Din flinches as he’s barraged with another wave of warm water and a happy squeal. Armour off and sleeves rolled up, he bends over the sink and coaxes the little one into the cradle of his hand as he scoops and pours water with the other. The child laughs, splashing giddily. He’s pretty sure most of the water has ended up on him rather than the child, but this is what he signed himself up for. Although it’s not meditative like stripping and cleaning his weapons, caring for the kid like this has become one of the standard routines in his day and there is a method to it, a rhythm they can usually observe.

They’re both still so new to this. The child smiles up at him, small arms wrapped around his wrist, ears perked high. Din smiles back beneath his helmet. They’re doing all right.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickle and he stops, glancing over his shoulder.

The warm lamp in the corner reveals nothing out of the ordinary in their one-bedroom lodging: one bed, one small table, the means to cook and clean for himself, and a basket that will be the child’s for the night. 

But something doesn’t feel right. 

Ever since… well, ever since he woke up to the scream of the Crest’s sirens, it was clear what was wrong there. Now, here on Lothal… maybe it’s just a change in atmospheric pressure or the gravity on this planet. Maybe he just needs some rest.

Glancing at his slumped reflection in the mirror above the sink, Din blinks hard, certain for a moment he’s seeing double. He sighs and his shoulders sag.

A polite rap at the door makes him straighten upright. “Your soup, Mando!”

Din winces at the brief needle of pain that strikes from the base of his skull right between his eyes. It makes his whole body throb, his vision white out, and he stills, groaning, and waits for it to pass.

The knock comes again. “Mando!” It sounds like a gruff older man. “You in there?”

“Weh?”

Din’s vision clears of its white blur to the child’s worried gaze. “It’s okay,” he hushes. Wrapping the child in its towel, he crosses the room and opens the door to a bored-looking Toydarian holding a generous tray of soup and three dark, small loaves.

Wings buzzing at his back, it looks like he’d been knocking with those large, clawed feet.

“With compliments,” the Toydarian grouses, raising the tray. “You all have a good night.”

The child coos with interest as Din accepts it one-handed. “Thanks.”

Almost as soon as he’s sealed the door, a fresh wave of dizziness sweeps over him and he stumbles back a step, swaying dangerously.

_Karking hells._

He barely manages to get the tray and the kid onto the table before his knees give out beneath him and he folds heavily onto his side.

He doesn’t know how long he’s out. 

_Tap tap tap._

“-- in.…”

Awareness returns like the slow lift of a fog. He smells blood. His hearing returns before his vision and he eventually understands that _tap tap_ belongs to the worried blob moulded to his visor.

The child mewls unhappily, peering in at him, searching for a sign of life. Small hands paw and scratch at his visor, struggling to press closer. Din’s chest constricts with guilt and he attempts to reach up to comfort the child. His hand flops back to the floor. Damn.

 _I’m okay,_ he tries to relay and finds his mouth won’t obey him, either.

Heart spiking with irrational panic, his efforts must still count for something because the child brightens with a hopeful sound and those claws stop tapping.

_I’m here._

The child’s face presses to his helm with a mournful sound. Finally, Din’s hand cooperates and he holds the child close in the unintentional kov’nyn.

_Not leaving yet, kid._

It takes all his strength to brace the child that he does not notice the massive shadow lingering over them.

“That’s sweet.”

Din’s heart almost explodes out of his chest and he scrambles, yanking the child to the shelter of his side as he tries to get up, roll, launch himself toward-- weapon, where are-- how did-- where are his weapons? The delay between brain and body only allows him to clutch the child and lurch on the floor like a hooked sand worm.

A snort of laughter. “What are you doing?”

Din stops. That voice. No. Wait.

No.

Turning on his back, Din stares up in numb disbelief at the hulking figure of one Paz Vizsla looming with hands on his hips, helmet cocked in amusement. He stands in full armour and the shape of the blaster cannon on his back renders his figure deceptively larger in the warm dim. As though he wasn’t big enough already.

The child hums an inquisitive noise as Din forces his throat to work, voice choked. “How?”

How is he here on Lothal? How did he get in their room without Din’s notice?

Paz shakes his head, golden light glancing off his visor. He offers a hand. “Get up.”

Heart turning over, Din swallows the lump in his throat and reaches up. Their hands pass right through each other. A cold chill sweeps through Din’s limbs and the two Mandalorians stare at each other, dumbfounded.

“Huh.” Paz looks from his hand to Din’s. “Well, that’s not good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Please,” Paz appeals and Din stiffens as the man’s shadow falls over his shoulder. “Explain to me, as if I were a child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Atlas  
>  Can rest his weary bones  
> The weight of the world  
> All falls away  
> In time_

It’s bittersweet remembering how it started.

After Din agreed to return in time for the children taking the Creed, something interesting began to happen. The next time he was within signal range of Nevarro, he found a new message from Paz waiting in his logs.

_“The ad’iik adopted another pet. This one chews leather.”_

few

Din had stared at the image of the proud fur puff enduring the affections of three foundlings with their arms thrown around its neck. Seated on spindly hind legs with its thick white-grey coat and tail, it looked as tall as the children themselves. Beady, dark eyes were narrowed in contentment, large ears pressed back. Din had frowned, concerned.

_“You sure it won’t chew them, too?”_

_“I’ve warned them it’s going in the next stew if it misbehaves.”_

From plumbing leaks in living quarters to new materials Alor blends extending their precious Beskar, Paz begins keeping him apprised of developments in the covert. From the children too shy to sing in their lessons of oral history to murmurs of what species had been glimpsed aboveground, Din reads every one. 

_“Look at this new weapons cache that arrived: we’re scavenging from droids now?”_

It almost feels like being there, walking through the covert and picking up developments by echoes of conversation and laughter down the halls. It’s been a long, long time since someone has made such an effort for him. Paz’s initiative is surprising. The boredom and cabin fever must be bad. Even so, it provides a critical lifeline for Din back to the Tribe and he privately clings to every word. 

Until Paz digresses.

_“Did you know there are 3-to-1 Jawa on any given planet at any time in the galaxy?”_

Paz’s messages become increasingly irrelevant and Din wonders if Paz has accidentally added him to a list of people who volunteered to hear every inane thought that crosses his mind. He can’t imagine why anyone would. 

_"Did you mean to send this to me?"_ He prompts after the fifth message that has nothing to do with the Tribe’s needs or welfare.

 _“Why?”_ The accusing reply challenges him. _“Inbox full?”_

_“Thought you might have been hacked by a trivia cast.”_

_“You want trivia?”_ He can almost hear the smirk in Paz’s voice.

Din groans as his logs for the next day and a half are bombarded with facts about Jawa that read like they’ve been composed by obnoxious Coruscanti socialites so sheltered they’ve never ventured beyond their front door-- and he’s too annoyed not to respond. To every single one.

_“Jawas don’t move in single file, those are Tuskens.”_

_“It’s not nonsense, they have their own language.”_

_“I don’t care how they reproduce.”_

_“They’re scavengers not thieves. We know the difference.” (Oh if only he knew how much he would regret defending them later.)_

Paz’s reply is infuriating: “ _I know you know. But did you know you’re funny when you’re mad?”_

Din’s next bounty would probably attest it was actually, sincerely, _severely_ not funny. He has to pursue the target across an urban sprawl and he blocks Paz’s frequency when a new ping almost overpowers the telltale sound of a rifle cocking behind his head. 

Hours later, he finally gets the target into carbon freeze and slumps into the Crest’s pilot seat with a strained groan of relief. The air in the Crest is so still and quiet. It takes a moment to realise why.

Din raises his vambrace and hesitates. What if he just kept Paz blocked? He shakes his head at himself, inputting the command and holds his breath.

Notifications for twenty-three new messages spill across the right hemisphere of his HUD. Din’s head thunks back against the chair with a sigh. He almost closes the command without investigating further, when he glimpses the latest message.

_“Just tell us you’re okay.”_

Curious, though against his better judgment, he skims the message history and tracks Paz’s amusing journey from more idle trivia to _“It was a joke, please, Beroya”_ and if the ‘please’ wasn’t enough to catch Din off-guard, he can’t quite believe the assertion, _"We're sending someone if you don't reply in the next few hours"._

This is what Din gets for spoiling the infantryman with his quick responses. Shaking his head, Din punches in his reply, motions sluggish.

_“Busy job. Caught the target.”_

He has just sagged back into the curve of his seat when both his vambrace and the console ping with a new notification. He startles, tense, and brings the message up in shimmering blue Mando’a beside the nav computer.

_“You’re safe?”_

Din frowns at those few words, throat inexplicably tight. His hand hovers at his vambrace. It takes three aborted attempts to compose a reply he’s satisfied with.

_“Of course.”_

The reply, again, is immediate. “ _Good. That’s good.”_

Din shrinks back in his seat, face warm. He throws his gaze around the cockpit as though it could provide some distance from those simple words that make him squirm with discomfort. His heart is thumping. Has it been so long since anyone but the tribe’s elders spared more than cursory concern for him? Din swallows hard, shaking his head at himself.

 _“No more Jawa trivia. Please,”_ he almost begs. He hesitates, erases the ‘please’ and hits ‘send’.

He almost feels like smiling when his console and vambrace ping with a gentle glow moments later.

_"I can do that."_

The years have taught Din to find comfort in the silence where there are no eyes assessing him for weakness or whispering speculations. Now, he wakes in the mornings to find new word from Paz and ends each day the same way. It’s an adjustment, but not unwelcome.

They do not say ‘good morning’. _"I dreamed we were back on Concordia and you got your helmet stuck in Alor’s gate,"_ Paz greets him instead.

Nor do they say ‘good night’. _"If you send one more of your made-up dreams, I’ll block you,"_ Din grouses, rolling over to fall asleep.

The bounties collect and, annoying as Paz is, Din still anticipates his replies. He imagines the tall infantryman leaning against dim corridors of the covert’s entry, typing into his vambrace and earning sharp looks from their vode. Does Paz look forward to his messages, too?

For weeks, they correspond like this. It becomes second nature for Din to scowl at his latest bounty, tuning out fruitless bargains and escorting runaways at gunpoint-- only to straighten with the ping of a new message in his HUD.

Their easy exchange brings an unexpected comfort in routine… the light nature of Paz’s updates piercing through the chronic weariness he hadn’t even noticed winding his chest tight. Most of the messages come through in text. He savours the ones delivered in audio form. They never exchange video.

The night before he’s due to return to Nevarro, Din closes his eyes as the Heavy Infantry’s voice fills the cockpit of the Crest.

_“Lida would like you to return with spiced cakes.”_

Din shakes his head and records his reply. “ _Lida wants a lot of things. She’s eleven.”_

His vambrace bleeps affirmatively and sends his message out to bounce among the stars. With the lights lowered to conserve power, Din lets his mind wander, gaze drifting between the twinkling bursts that pierce the dark. One system for each star, and millions of stars in between. It could make a man feel insignificant. He has always revelled in anonymity, understanding the power of passing unseen when it suits him.

He doesn’t know why Paz wants to know him again after all their years of estrangement. It feels... good. Scary. But good.

He smiles at the gentle chime of a new message.

 _“She wants to serve in the mess hall when she takes the Creed. Her instincts in combat are too good to squander over a hot stove.”_ Paz’s tone is exasperated and disapproving, but… hopeful? Almost as though he wants Din to back him up? Why does he need Din’s opinion?

Din thinks of that happy child stirring a pot as tall as herself, brandishing the giant ladle like a spear. A part of him regrets that once Lida takes the Creed, he’ll no longer see that bright, mischievous grin. It makes him giddy to think of Paz sour with disappointment.

“ _What does Alor say?”_

The reply to that one doesn’t come through until the morning. Din checks his logs periodically before resigning himself to rest, curious at the delay. When he rolls over in the morning and staggers up the ladder to turn off the autopilot, he finds the console blinking with a new message.

The speakers crackle and hush with the force of Paz’s sigh. Din smiles immediately, the fog of sleep lifting.

 _“If Lida wants to nourish the bodies and mind of the Tribe, Alor will not prevent her service.”_ The formality of Paz’s message drips with discontent. Din snorts a laugh under his breath.

_“The child wants to feed you well and you would deny her?”_

He’s punching in the commands for his return when the console lights up with Paz’s reply.

_“Good point.”_

Yeah, it is.

His palms are sweating when the ship ejects from hyperspace and the red-black pitted spectre of Nevarro looms ahead. His chest clutches tight. His breaths come short. He checks and re-checks his vectors of entry, doubting himself. 

Will Paz still want to speak when Din is within throwing distance (would he try throwing _Din,_ for that matter? Some old habits died hard)? If Paz walks past him in the corridors like nothing has changed at all… like he hasn’t become Din’s first and last thought every day of the last three weeks… the thought of it tugs hard in his chest.

Friends are complicated.

His gloved hands tremble in their familiar path across the console, entering commands he’s punched a dozen times before. This time is no different. It’s no different.

Jaw set, he pushes the ship ahead.

Offloading the bounties with Greef is swift, efficient and, for once, the Guild leader hasn’t varied the final payment from the agreed price. Din makes a stop through the market on his way to the covert. With every approaching step toward the hidden entrance, his heart beats faster. His palms are sweating again. His mouth has gone dry. He shakes his head, scowling at himself and forcing moisture down his throat.

He checks his logs on reflex. No new messages. He’s not sure why his stomach drops.

The first moments adjusting from the bazaar’s harsh light of day to the pitch of the underground is always disorienting. As his HUD adapts, he tenses at the detection of motion in his periphery.

A Covert infantryman leans against the arch to his left, watching. They are dressed in greys and green, a light stock rifle against their shoulder. Din does not know them. Despite himself, his heart sinks.

He’s too slow to register the light, running tread of feet. He’s startled by a squeal of glee and stumbles back under the weight of the child suddenly hanging from his waist. Red hair spills down their ears in a misshapen bob. Skinny arms tighten around him. The sweet, round face unburies itself from the belly of his vest, and he’s arrested by the power of the smile that beams up at him, as mischievous as he remembers, now gap-toothed.

“Lida,” Din breathes, hands hovering at a loss. “You-- you’re not supposed to be up this far.” No one but the perimeter guards are allowed this close to the surface. He takes her chin in hand, frowning gently. “What happened to your tooth?”

She nips his thumb and cackles when he snatches his hand back in surprise. “I was sparring! And I won!”

“She did,” a new voice murmurs, low and rich. “A convincing victory.”

Paz materialises from the dark like a slow bleed of shadow, each motion heavy and measured. Din swallows with difficulty. It’s easy to forget how much space Paz occupies until Din stands before him. Din sinks on his heels and resists the impulse to take a step back. Did Paz get bigger?

A warning notification pops up in his HUD that his heart rate has spiked. Well, that’s embarassing.

“As I said: she’ll be wasted in the kitchens,” Paz mutters with a petty half-shrug and shake of that notched, blue helmet.

A helpless bleat of laughter escapes from Din and all the tension spills out of his body. It’s like Paz stepped from the logs of his console and into this corridor. He's the same man. _They_ are the same. The relief weakens Din’s knees.

“Did you bring me cake?” Lida bounces on the balls of her feet, the pitch of her excitement echoing down the long length of the corridor.

Din casts an embarrassed glance at the other infantrymen watching from their stations. “I-- uh--” He swings around the satchel slung over his shoulder and opens it to present the wrapped package inside. Lida’s high squeal makes him wince on reflex, but he laughs quietly. “You need to share. With the other foundlings.” He places it in her small hands with care. “Understand?”

“Yep!” She’s barely wrapped it in her arms before she whirls and takes off down the corridor.

 _“Lida.”_ Paz’s deep growl stops her in her tracks and she rounds with eyes comically large, shoulders high and tense at her ears. “What do you say?”

Lida straightens in a parody of military precision before bowing, deep and dramatic, and her voice sings out, “Ori'vor'e, beroya!”

“Kemir,” Paz orders in that same commanding tone. It sends a warm shiver through Din to hear it. 

As the foundling takes off for the heart of the covert with unnecessarily long lunges, Paz turns back to Din, head shaking with fond exasperation. His helmet cocks and Din’s heart does that funny _thump-thump_ when that visor scans him from boot to helm.

A heavy beat of silence hangs between them.

“Hi,” Paz says, quiet and warm, knocking the breath from Din’s lungs. He’s never heard that tone directed at him before, like they’re sharing a joke meant only for them, like he’s glad to see Din and they’ve been friends again for longer than three paltry weeks.

“Hi,” Din wheezes, mortified at himself.

Paz chuckles under his breath and steps back, cocking his head for Din to follow. “Come. They’ve been waiting for you.”

///

What a difference a year can make.

///

Sprawled by the table of his lodgings on Lothal, Din’s vision swims and his stomach pitches with nausea. He flinches at the blue, gloved hand offered again to him.

Looming above, Paz halts at his reaction. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He hesitates, scanning the bounty hunter at his feet. His voice lowers with concern. “What happened?”

The child whimpers as Din clutches him tighter against his side and pushes back to force some distance between them and their uninvited guest, boots skidding on the wood.

“Wh--” Din swallows against the fever hot clench that surges from his gut to his shoulders, fighting it back. His eyes clench shut and sweat beads down his temples. “How d-did you-- get-- get here?”

Paz’s thoughtful hum barely registers, soft as it is beneath the road of blood in Din’s ears. When Din forces his eyes open again, Paz is across the room peering out the thin window into the market’s alley.

The silhouette of him makes Din’s eyes burn and the next time his chest hitches, it’s not the nausea. He looks just the same as those final moments when Din left him at the gates of Nevarro covering his escape, cannonfire ringing in his ears. 

“Where are we?” Paz asks.

Din didn’t know if he would ever see him again. His throat tightens. Why is he seeing him now?

That blue-set visor glances back at him when he doesn’t reply and Din feels the stone rise in his throat. The longer he’s held in that dark gaze, the more the hairs on the back of his neck prickle like he’s looking into the approaching face of some terrible, inevitable truth.

“Beroya?”

Something in his chest breaks loose. ‘Beroya’. Not ‘Din’.

“L--Lothal,” he manages, voice rough.

Paz straightens by the counter still soaked with the remnants of the child’s bath. “Lothal?”

The child mewls gently in question at the brush of Din’s fingers beneath his chin. “Can you see him?” he asks the little one, hushed and despairing of the answer.

Small, strong claws close around his index finger. Large ears perk up quizzically and those dark eyes search him in earnest as though he wants to help but he doesn’t know what’s being asked of him. Din isn’t certain how much this child really understands but in the moment, he desperately, _desperately_ needs the child to comprehend.

_Why now why now why now--_

“Beroya,” Paz insists with a hint of annoyance.

Din ignores the timbre of that voice, wincing at the splinter it drives into his heart. He looks from the child to Paz glaring from across the room. He points with his free hand. “There. Can you see him?”

The child blinks at him, then the direction of his bath. Focusing on the finger Din is pointing, he nibbles on the one in his grasp with a hopeful chirp. It is the sweetest, most guileless answer the child could present for him and Din feels his heart crack right down the middle. It takes what meagre strength remains to resist pulling the child against his chest in gratitude (and grief).

“What is going on?” Paz demands as Din slowly pulls himself to his feet with the aid of the furniture, groaning at the effort as it scrapes beneath his weight. The child is gently deposited on the table beside the tray of soup and rolls. “Why can’t I remember how I got here? Who is that child?”

Din can count on one hand how many times he has heard worry in Paz’s voice. Worry-- not to be confused with concern-- because Paz only worries about things he suspects are beyond his control. Something they both cope poorly without.

Sighing, braced on the back of a chair, Din offers his hand. “Again.”

Paz’s boots make no sound on the wood as he crosses the room. Din’s face falls, head bowing for a moment, even as he holds out his hand. Terrible, inevitable truth.

Paz reaches out. Their fingers curl and pass right through each other.

Din sinks into the chair weighed by the proof before him as Paz shakes his head, looking at his hands. A blue glove reaches out for the table next and fails to find purchase there, either.

“Wh-- what does it mean?” Paz stutters.

Elbows on his knees and his helmet in his hands, Din shakes his head. “It means… my quest just became a lot more difficult.”

///

If his injuries are so bad that he’s experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations, Din knows his prospects are very poor. He kicks himself for not persevering at the MedCenter when he had the doctor’s attention. He’ll need to go back. This is not something he can fix with a soldering iron and a bacta patch, but… 

His heart gives an anxious thud.

How can they scan him without removing his armour? Without removing his helmet? If they insist, he must refuse. And if he refuses….

Din looks to the child innocently curling around one of the bread loaves on the tray, still swathed in its towel. His little cheeks puff in a self-satisfied smile as thick claws sink through the crust with relish. His gurgle of mischief tugs Din's heart with a sharp pang.

What will happen to the kid if Din succumbs to his injuries?

“Beroya!” Paz barks because, of course he must, there’s no other way Din would give a life-threatening symptom his time or attention. Towering by the table, the mountain of a man glowers with hands on his hips and all the impotent threat of an empty cannon. “Are you ignoring me?”

Din sighs, eyes sliding closed. “Please. Be quiet.”

Paz chokes on an incredulous noise. “Have you lost your senses?”

Din wishes he could remove his helmet to rub at his temples where a headache is building. “Almost.”

“Look at this!” 

Din cracks an eye open to glimpse Paz throwing his hand through the table, back and forth, narrowly missing the child nibbling happily with breadcrumbs on his upper lip. 

“Do you see this? We have a problem!”

“No, _I_ have a problem. _You_ are not real.”

He can feel Paz staring at him, radiating pure offence. His imagination is unhelpfully vivid. _“What?_ You would dare insult me--"

Din leans his forehead on folded hands. “Could you be... a little bit quieter. Please.”

He has to think. MedCenter in the morning. But if that fails... who could he trust to protect the child? Who would have both the ability and inclination? Cara? His mind weakly offers, but she was no caregiver. Omera, he wants to say, but it would paint too large a target on their village. A beat of silence passes and Din’s shoulders relax with the vain hope his fracturing mind has taken mercy on him.

“What’s wrong with you?” the apparition probes because Din is just not that lucky.

He groans, thumping a loose fist against the headache pulsing at the bridge of his nose. It is not helping his nausea. Maybe the hallucination is his subconscious processing. Maybe if he responds, it will eventually quiet. But why... _why_ did it have to be Paz?

“I killed the ones who killed us,” he says, finally.

“... What are you talking about?” Paz sounds bewildered. “What happened to you? Why am I…. ? What happened to us?”

Maybe the soup will ease Din’s nausea. He hushes the kid when he pulls the bowl of soup toward him across the table. “I’m not taking your loaf. You can have it, buddy.” Clutching the spoon, he turns in his chair to show them his back and notices the apparition of Paz has instinctively done the same. Huh. At least his subconscious remembers the etiquette of things.

The seal of his helmet lifts with a hiss and he rests it on his forehead, still wary of taking it off completely with the child so close and the prospect of Paz _right there_ even if he isn’t real. Even if… it wouldn’t be the first time.

He swallows and prods at the chunks of meat in the dark soup, spooning it gingerly.

“I came back to clear the kid’s bounty. I found what was left of us. We cleared the city of the Imps. I killed Gideon. Took a few knocks,” he says, thinking of the blast that almost bled him out on the floor of the cantina and then the dizzying, arm-wrenching effort of bringing Gideon’s TIE down with only his jetpack and a few detonators.

Yeah that shoulder still hurt.

“What are you talking about?” Paz sounds aghast, almost accusing. “This kid?” And the child chortles as if in echo, probably digging into another loaf. “What do you mean, ‘what was left of us’?”

Din spoon stalls halfway to his lips, a cold realisation squeezing his heart. “I didn’t even see if your buy’ce was there.” Ay, Manda, what if it was? What if Din had walked right by Paz’s remains and hadn’t even _known?_ It feels like a betrayal-- even if Din didn’t owe him anything because Paz made it clear he wanted nothing more to do with him-- Din’s heart was slow to catch up. He had always been the slow one.

And finally, it all hits him: the desecration and decimation of their home, their people, and this precious friendship that had been budding with hope. It’s all gone. All he has left is this child and this quest pointing into the dark unknown: somewhere, somehow-- Jedi. 

His spoon clatters into the bowl and he slumps, burying his pained grimace in his palm. He shudders with a silent sob. He’s so tired. He doesn’t want to be all that’s left of them. He can’t.

The concerned coo stabs him with guilt. He shouldn’t be making the kid worry. Straightening, he sucks in a steadying breath, drawing it down deep and stuttering the way he had been taught when the first panic attacks afflicted him as a child. Slow in, and hold.

“Beroya,” Paz says, and the loss in his voice almost makes Din crack again. _“Vod’ika.”_ That one makes Din’s eyes blur with tears, but he swipes them away quickly. “You frighten me. When last I saw you, the only children in your arms were our new Mando’ade fat with spiced cake… and you had departed again. You had made me a promise.”

Din frowns. It takes a moment for those words to process. And then a moment more. His heart stops. “What?”

“Please,” Paz appeals and Din stiffens as the man’s shadow falls over his shoulder. “Explain to me, as if I were a child.”

The spiced cake… Din's promise. His eyes widen and a wave of sweet agony washes through him, unbelieving.

 _“That’s_ the last thing you remember?” he blurts out. How could his subconscious treat him so cruelly? Unable to help himself, he draws his helmet down and turns in his chair, peering up into Paz’s visor. Up into, what he now realises, is a hallucination of a man frozen in the moment when he still lov-- no, he never said-- cared for Din. Explicitly.

Was his mind so desperate for reprieve it had to conjure something so pathetic?

But God, he looks so real, he makes Din’s heart ache. 

A touch on his ankle startles him, almost tipping the soup on his knee. The child is there with a hopeful smile, small hands wrapped on the leather of his boot. Din sets the soup aside on the table and the child coos happily when he is gathered up into Din’s lap where he burrows into his side. Din stares at the soft fuzz of hair on his delicate ears and brushes the crumbs away with his thumb, allowing the child to play with his hands, tiny claws slipping into the gap of his sleeve to close against the bare skin of his wrist. Din shivers. The child hums, satisfied, and Din closes his eyes, allowing the touch.

“Din.”

He will not cry.

“Tell me.”

He opens his eyes and finds the ghost of knuckles against his beskar cheek. Biting his tongue at the intimate gesture, he reaches up with his free hand, even knowing it is futile. It’s his own fingertips that brush the steel but Paz doesn’t move away, repeating that glide of hard-gloved knuckles as though Din would feel their touch. He does remember what it felt like, and tilts his cheek up to it.

“Tell me,” Paz pleads again.

Finally, Din relents and starts from the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Din doesn't even know if his child is gluten-intolerant can you believe this parenting. Special shout-out if you spot the _Serenity_ film reference. Also, I read too much Transformers fanfic, so Mandalorian HUDs will do more than we've seen canonically because the comedic opportunity is too much fun.
> 
> Paz's dream is a reference to [this hilarious (gen) art](https://toasty-cowboy.tumblr.com/post/636445815335010305/i-love-your-banner-and-all-the-art-of-tiny-happy) from toasty-cowboy.
> 
>  **Mando'a translations (the less familiar terms):**  
>  Buy'ce / Helmet  
> Ori'vor'e / Thank you very much  
> Kemir / Walk  
> Vod’ika / Little warrior, a term of affection

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween!
> 
> Come chat with me on Twitter about [gen and meta](https://twitter.com/bellsybuilds) or [ships and thirst](https://twitter.com/bellsyafterdark).
> 
>  **Permissions:** You do not need to ask for permission to make translations, podfics, fanfic or fanart for any of my stories-- I do ask that you link back to my original work and let me know because I would LOVE to share what you've created.


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